


Of Land and Sea and Salt

by Self_san



Series: When the Earth Kissed the Sky [8]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe-Gender Changes, Always-a-girl!Q, But Bond really doesn't care, F/M, Q isn't good at this, Sex, really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:56:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Self_san/pseuds/Self_san
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q isn't good at these things. </p><p>Bond is Bond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Land and Sea and Salt

**Author's Note:**

> (Yes, it was Covert Affairs. :D Good eye, readers!)
> 
> Also: there is now sex.

Q really hates her job, sometimes.

No, wait--

Q lets herself slump, naked and spent and aching, fresh from a hot-shower, onto the cool covers of her bed.

Her hair is a wet halo around her head as she burrows into her pillows. Her towel is soaking on the hardwood, and Q should really get that, should really get up, if only to slip into a pair of jim-jams and then crawl back under the quilts.

But she just…can’t bring herself to.

Eight hours she spent, talking 004 and then 008 through a series of disarming that spanned what was probably the entirety of the Czech Republic. Which was just…brutal, even for Q. Eight hours of thinking in code. Eight hours of stretching her reach to the farthest she had ever thought to want, snapping her attention in a million directions at once, trying to save two 00’s that could have been Bond.

Then leading Bond through the underground of Austria, listening to him dodge bullets, hearing the crack of bones and watching the beating of his heart on one of her monitors as the others spanned the city streets, cutting and cross-referencing CCTV and traffic cameras as she directed and re-directed him over buildings and through windows.

The mission had ended well enough, with three terrorists dead, Bond with only a few bruised ribs, cuts and contusions, bruising and bullet burns, ten bombs disarmed, and three agents coming home alive.

One Q, shaking from adrenaline and exhaustion, actually _clocking out_ to go home, grab a shower (thank Christ she had taken the time, days before, to fix the hot water heater), and pass out in her own bed and not the office couch.

Which was were…she…

Q barely had time to shrug under her covers, pulling them up over her head to surround her in a cocoon of heat and cotton, before her brain just…quit.

And she was asleep.

*

Q woke to someone breaking into her flat.

Well, trying to break into her flat, anyway.

Still, it took her a moment of blinking into the darkness of her covers, wondering who in their right mind would try to rob _her_ , before old habits kicked in and she was _up_ , out of bed, a gun in her hand trained on the door of her flat as she crept out of her room on silent feet and stood, still and waiting in her living room, mid-morning sun streaming in from around her curtains.

Then she heard a familiar voice bite out a low curse.

She blinked, lowering her gun, and closed her eyes. She flipped the safety on, pressing the cold barrel to her forehead.

She called out, “Scuff my lock and _die_ , Bond.”

There was silence.

“Well, are you going to let me in?” he asked, plaintive and rather sulky, like a child that had been caught with his hand in the biscuits. Even muffled through the door as he was, Q could still hear him clearly.

She glanced down at her pale, naked body, and snagged a housedress off of the back of her couch, shrugging into it and tying it loosely around her hips, her face hot.

She tucked the gun into her pocket, and unlocked her door.

There was Bond, shoulders slumped and eyes blood-shot, standing in her doorway.

Q stepped back and let him in, closing the door behind him and flipping the locks.

“I think your landlady thinks I’m a prostitute,” Bond said, standing in the foyer, wounded and dripping rainwater onto Q’s hardwood flooring.

It took a minute for Q to get from sleep warm to _God, what the ever loving fuck is Bond doing on my doorstep._ But she got there, her gun an awkward weight banging against her thigh as she leaned against the doorway leading from her hall to her open kitchen and living room space.

“Is that so?” she asked, when Bond looked back at her.

A smirk twisted his lips, pulling at the nasty split decorating the corner of his mouth.

It started to bleed.

“Yes,” he said, as his teeth were staining with blood.

Q rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and held out a hand.

“Coat,” she told him, and watched as he stiffly shrugged out of his dark, nondescript jacket.

It was soaked through with rain and the arm was stiff with dried blood. Q hung it up and let it drip.

Bond was staring at her, backlit by the sun where it snuck into her darkened apartment, hair damp around his ears, a pair of worn trousers hanging onto his hips and a wet shirt sticking to his arms and chest. Bright white bandages wrapped around a bicep, a forearm, and a plaster was stuck to his cheek.

He was just a blur without her glasses, but he was still beautiful enough to make her chest ache as she stared at him.

Then she swallowed, pointing.

“The loo is through there, Bond, go get dried off before you catch your death.”

She honestly didn’t think anything more of it--let him go to snag a towel and warm up, put on a kettle of tea. She thought about setting out the pair of briefs that her sister had sent as a gag gift for the Solstice, large enough to fit three of Q, decked with a monster face on the fly and the words, ‘UNLEASH THE BEAST, if you dare…’ written on the leg, but even the thought was enough to set her face flaming.

She settled on a plain black t-shirt that would probably only be a size too small, and a pair of sweatpants that she had had since before she joined MI6--something that she stole from one partner or another, that were holey and worn and grey but still comfortable and loose enough for Bond's enormously muscled thighs.

She set them on the seat beside her bathroom door and headed out to check on the tea.

It took about ten minutes for Q to get worried, as Bond didn’t come out and she was left on her third cup of tea, awake enough to realize that he probably should have been out by then.

“Bond, are you--” Q stepped into her bedroom, frowning, her voice raised so that he could hear her in the bathroom, and froze, her words caught in her throat.

Bond was laid out on his stomach, on her bed, all tan, muscled expanse, scars dotting his back and legs. His head rested on his folded arms.

He stared at her, half-lidded, something hot in his eyes.

“Yes, Q?” he asked, like they are chatting about the weather.

Q’s heart was ratcheted loud enough that she can barely hear him, her mouth open as she stared.

Shocked. Surprised. All manner therein.

She couldn’t even tell if she was bloody breathing--all she could see is Bond, naked and hot and unbearably handsome. In her bed. Naked. Sans clothing.

Did she mention _naked?_

And where had all the air gone? Was it air-sabbatical day in Q’s flat?

Suddenly she was unequivocally aware that all she had separating them was her housedress, a thin old flannel thing that she kept more out of sentiment than anything else.

It took her a moment before she could even think to raise her eyes to the ceiling, her voice wheezing out of her.

“Did the clothing not fit?” she asked, her voice suddenly lower, throaty, breathy in her mouth. She cleared her throat twice in the sentence, and it took everything in her power to keep her eyes on the bland, pale ceiling of her bedroom and off of the man, naked, lying amid her rumpled bedclothes.

“No, I just figured we could have more fun without them,” Bond drawled, and Q heard him sit up, felt her face flush even further.

Miserably, she closed her eyes, her arms tightening around her stomach, her hands unconsciously clenched in her robe.

“Right,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.

“Q?” Bond asked after a moment, his voice suddenly hesitant, unsure, and Q’s eyes snapped to him.

He was sitting in the middle of her bed, sheets covering his lap, his shoulders low, one hand propping him up.

His chest was bruised, bandages dotting his body, and Q could see how tensely he was holding himself.

Right, bruised ribs.

“Yes, Bond?” and her voice was steadier. But still low.

“Did I…read this the wrong way?” he asked, slowly, practically stumbling over his words. Cautious. All air of sexiness and mystery gone, leaving a naked man unsure in Q’s bed.

Q blinked. “I… _this_ this or the _‘get dried off’_ this?” she asked, licking her lips. She shifted foot to foot.

Bond frowned.

“Either. Both,” he said, and he was watching her carefully as he shifted to sit completely upright. Waiting for her answer.

“No,” Q answered, then quickly, “ _Yes_. I mean…what are you _doing_ here, anyway?” she asked, confused.

Bond gave her a level look.

“I thought that was obvious.”

Q blinked again. “Oh. The sex?” She tried not to feel disappointed at that. Of course he just wanted to cash in on the check she had been writing the past few days.

Of course.

But Bond snorted, glaring at her like she was being purposefully dense.

“No, Q. The _you_ ,” he said slowly, spelling it out for her.

Q felt her heart pick up even further, and she swallowed thickly, her hand coming up to rest against her throat. She ran a toe over the edge of one of her rugs, feeling the painful clench in her chest loosen.

“But we are having sex, right?” she asked, just to clarify.

Bond looked like he wanted to laugh. Or punch her in the face.

“If you’d…like?”

Q nodded. “Alright, because I do. Want to, that is,” she said. It came out…awkward, to say the least.

“That’s great, Q,” Bond said drolly, scooting over on the bed.

Q took the invitation, and came to sit on the edge. She reached out, shoving him lightly.

“Oh, hush,” she rolled her eyes, smiling slightly.

Bond rubbed his arm like she had actually hurt him, a slow grin pulling around his mouth. “Though your bedside manner does leave something to be desired,” he said, teasing.

Q scoffed.

“No, really, Q. I’m _grievously_ injured,” he warbled. He fainted back onto the bed, an arm coming up to rest across his forehead like he was a Victorian maiden.

Q picked up a pillow and smacked him over the head.

“Please. It’s but a flesh wound,” she half-laughed, and Bond grabbed the pillow, growling, and flung it off the side of the bed.

He was smiling, now, soft and slow and almost unbearably bright, looking up at her.

“Is it going to be like this every time?” he asked, amusedly and low.

“No?”

Bond rolled his eyes now, curling around her leg like a great cat.

“Was that a question, Q?” he asked, playing with the edge of her robe, his fingers ghosting along her knee.

“Maybe.” Q shrugged. “I’m not…good at these sorts of things,” she added slowly.

Bond threw her a rakish grin.

“Care to make it easier?” he asked, and his voice was low again, heated and as thick as molasses. He rubbed his cheek along her thigh, and Q felt herself half-jump. She stared down at him.

She arched an eyebrow when he just grinned, unrepentant.

“Was that a _question_ , Bond?” she teased him, throwing his own words back at him, letting a finger trace down his back.

He shivered under the light touch.

“Yes, Q, yes it was.”

And he tugged her down for a kiss.

*

Mouth searing and hot from kisses and Bond, propping herself over him so that he wouldn’t have to strain his ribs, Q let herself drift from his mouth, moving over his chin, tracing his jaw.

Bond’s hands felt enormous on her back, one fisted into her still-fastened robe, another on her hip.

He made a soft noise when Q bit down gently along the corner of his jaw.

“Anything specific to stay away from?” she asked lowly, throaty and full and warm from the heat of Bond’s body. She ran her tongue over the shell of his ear.

“Knives. Being tied up. Fire. You?” he said, his voice vibrating from his chest where Q’s breasts just barely rested. His hand suck up the bottom of her robe, lingering up her outer thigh, and Q hummed into the touch, arching.

Lord, it had been too long.

“The last two, any hitting of any kind, no marks where anyone will see,” she told him, moving down his neck to his collarbone, laving kisses and scrapping her teeth gently as she went.

Bone made a frustrated noise when she left there to lean up and look him in the eyes, rub the edge of her nose along his, press butterfly kisses to his cheeks, her breath teasing along his lips.

Bond’s hand left her robe to fumble for the front tie of it, and Q didn’t stop him, her head foggy and her skin tight with want.

She was utterly _drenched,_ she realized, biting into Bond’s mouth again, groaning, letting more of her weight down.

The sheets did nothing to hide the fact that he was hard, straining up to where she straddled his hips.

“Do you have--” she stared to ask, gasping as she pulled away.

Bond grunted. “Yes, let me--” he went to grab a the bedside table, where his wallet lay.

Q stopped him, holding his wrist.

“No, wait, can I--” she shifted down, letting him know her intentions.

Bond froze, and Q could feel his heart where it stuttered against her own.

“Not if you want this to go any further, I’m afraid,” he said roughly, his throat working. He tugged at her sash, and it loosened, loosened, opened.

Q thought about it, letting Bond hungrily look at her bare chest, too hot and bothered to feel any kind of self-conscious, not with Bond so obviously interested.

“What’s your refractory time?” she asked instead, watching as Bond licked his lips, staring at her like she was something he wanted to eat, to try on like a new suit.

“Not what it used to be,” he said, mocking and rather self-deprecatingly, his hand coming up to cup her ribcage, just shy of her breast.

Q grinned. “I can work with that.”

*

Naked, Q let her hips grind into her mattress as Bond writhed beneath her, her robe discarded and her hair curling around her cheeks and neck. She was taking her time, and couldn’t bother to be rushed by her own, deeper needs.

Bond’s hands were fisted in her bedspread, his head thrown back against the pillows, gasping and shaking as Q held his fullness in her mouth and hummed and sucked and _swallowed,_ greedy and hot and wanting to watch him come to pieces just from her lips, her tongue.

His chest heaved as she pulled away, blowing cool air along his heated length, licking her lips.

“You can grab my hair, if you’d like,” she told him kindly, watching him blink, dazed, as she leaned back in and guided him into her mouth again, careful of her teeth.

They moaned together, Q from the weight of him, pressed along her tongue, from the smell of his arousal and the bitter taste of precome sliding along the back of her throat, from the feel of the blood rushing just under his skin, pulsing against the roof of her mouth, from the hot press of him.

He didn’t grab her hair. She wasn’t sure if it was disappointing or not.

But Q had always loved giving head. Had loved the utter power it had given her, how it had felt to feel a man grow and come and wane under her touch.

The taste wasn’t so great, but it wasn’t as bad as Q thought most women made it out to be. It just…was what it was, she figured. She had never really cared one way or another.

She slid back enough to flutter her tongue once, twice, sucking hard and twisting her hand along the base, slick with her spit, and felt Bond _seize._

Q swallowed, once, twice, and he twisted, his thighs shaking and his abs shivering, and pulled away, letting him fall lax from her mouth, as he lay, panting.

She ran her tongue over her teeth and swallowed a few more times as she pulled away, moving up.

Bond’s eyes were bright and glazed, staring at the ceiling, his mouth open, his heart racing under her hand as she checked to make sure she hadn’t _actually_ killed him.

She hadn’t, and she pressed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth before rolling off of him, careful not to jostle his ribs.

He blinked, a hand reaching out to stop her, but Q didn’t go far, lying right beside him as he worked through his orgasm.

She could see his throat move as he tried to speak, and rubbed her chin over his un-hurt shoulder.

Q’s throat was only slightly sore, which was nice, because Bond was large enough that she _had_ worried about that, and she worked around the feeling.

She felt punch-drunk, a low grade electricity thrumming under her skin, and she rode the feeling, stretching out the ache in her neck.

Q could still taste him, even as he turned over, grabbing her hair and pulling her in for a spine-bending kiss that made her toes want to curl.

It really had been too long.


End file.
